PS. 



4 



THE STORY 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



KATHERINE BKEBE 



CHICAGO 
A. FIvANAGAN PUBLISHER 



■x> c. .-. „ 5? I 



31633 

Copyright 1899, 

BY 

A. Flanagan. 



fWO COPIES ReCClVED. 



( 



MAY *i- 1899 




\^in 



rPiin- - 



'iO \H-1 



Table of Contents, 



I. The Child 7 

II. The School Boy ...... 15 

III. The Student 21 

IV. The Traveler 27 

V. The Professor ...... 35 

VI. The Poet 41 

VII. The Father 47 

VIII. The Man 53 

IX. Selected Poems . . . ,* . . 57 



al( 
ai 



THE STORY OF LONGFELLOW. 



CHAPTER I. 
The; Child. 

The largest city in the state of Maine is Portland. 
It is a beautiful town, for it lies on a little peninsula 
which extends into Casco Bay. 

hi addition to salt water privileges, it has a river, 
and it is built on high hills, from which, on clear days, 
one can see the distant mountains. The city contains 
many fme trees, stately old houses, and beautiful gar- 
dens. On its outskirts are woods, fields and pastures. 

In this pleasant place the poet Longfellow was born, 
on the twenty-seventh day of February, 1807. 

The house in which he was born is still standing. 
When the Longfellows lived there, it was one of the fine 
mansions of the town. It stood on a street which ran 
along the bay shore. Only its yard and the road sep- 
arated it from the water. 



(T) 



8 The Story of Longfellow. 

All the fine houses are now farther up town, and 
this one has become a tenement house. The beach is 
covered with railway tracks and buildings. 




tONGFEIvLOW's BIRTHPLACE. 



When their boy was only a year old Mr. and Mrs. 
Longfellow moved into another home. This house is 
on Congress St., and will be pointed out to you as the 
"Longfellow House" if you visit Portland. 



The Story of Longfeli,ow. 

It was the first brick house in the town, and was 
built by General Wadsworth, the poet's grandfather. 
It is now in the heart of the city, but then was quite 
"out of town," and surrounded by fields and pastures. 

Mrs. Longfellow came to this house to live when 
she was only seven years old. She was married there, 
most of her children were born there, and she died there. 

She had a brother, whose name was Henry Wads- 
worth. Although only nineteen years old he was in 
the Navy. 

On the night of September 4th, 1804, he was on the 
fire-ship "Intrepid" off Tripoli. This ship was blown 
up, to keep it from falling into the hands of the enemy, 
and Lieutenant Wadsworth was killed. It was for this 
brave uncle that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was 
named. 

Henry Longfellow had a good mother. Her children 
told her all their secrets, and were comforted by her in 
their troubles. It was her loving patience which helped 
them most in overcoming their faults. She taught 
them kindness, cheerfulness and unselfishness by being 
kind, cheerful and unselfish herself. She was devoted 



10 The Story of Longfellow. 

to her church and her Bible. She was also a great lover 
of Nature. 

You will see, as this story goes on, how Henry Long- 
fellow grew to be like his mother. You will also see 
in what ways he resembled his father. 

Mr. Stephen Longfellow was a father of whom any 
boy might well be proud. He was a lawyer, and 
noted as a most excellent one. He was a man of abso- 
lute honesty, and had most genial and courteous 
manners. 

He was sent to the Legislature of Massachusetts, for 
Maine was then a part of that state. He afterwards 
went to Washington as a member of Congress. 

Mr. Longfellow was very kind to his children, but 
strict with them as well. He taught them to be respect- 
ful and obedient, to fear debt, and to do their duty 
bravely and cheerfully. 

Besides Henry, there were in the family three other 
boys and four girls. Henry was the second child, his 
brother Stephen being the oldest of them all. 

In October, 1807, when her baby was only seven 
months old, Mrs. Longfellow wrote a letter, in which 



The Story of Longfellow. 11 

she told several things about her "little Henry W.," as 
she called him. She spoke especially of his fondness 
for singing and dancing. 

When Henry was five years old, the War of 1812 
was declared. The little boys in Portland were, of 
course, very much interested in it. 

Henry's mother wrote in another letter that he was 
prepared to march against the British at a moment's 
notice, and that his tin gun had been ready for a 
week. ' • 

Two years later the boy wrote his first letter. It 
was to his father, who was in Boston. Here is a copy 
of the words in it: 

Dear Papa,— Ann wants a Bible like little Betsey's. 
Will you please buy her one, if you can find any in Bos- 
ton. I have been to school all the week, and got only 
seven marks. I shall have a billet on Monday. I wish 

you to buy me a drum. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 

This seems a very good letter for a seven-year-old 
bq;^ to compose and write. 

^ A billet was a kind of report card. 1 will tell you 
more about this one later on. 



12 The Story of Longfellow. ^ 

You notice that Henry asks for Ann's Bible first and 
iiis drum last 

His father wrote him in answer to this letter. He; 
told him that he had found a pretty drum with an eagle 
painted on it, and that he would buy it if he could find 
a way to send it to Portland. There were no railroads 
then, and Mr. Longfellow said in his letter that no ships 
were allowed to sail from Boston to Portland at that 
time. 

Henry was very much like other boys in many ways. 
He was once turning a somersault, on his way home 
from school, when he hurt his elbow so badly that he 
had to have his arm in a sling. He felt well enough to 
go to dancing school the next day, for he was very 
fond of dancing, but he did not feel able to go to church 
the following Sunday. 

The boys sometimes played circus with a large 
wooden rocking^-horse which they had. Once, while 
vaulting over its head, to show his admiring little sisters 
what he could do, Henry brought the horse over with 
him, with such force that its neck was broken. 

He loved all boys' games, such as ball, kite-flying, 



I 

The Story of Longfellow. 13 

boating, swimming, fishing, coasting and skating. He 
once went hunting with his brother and shot a robin. 
He was so grieved at what he had done that he never 
cared to shoot again. 

With all his boyish liveliness, however, he was so 
generous, kind-hearted, affectionate and manly that 
everybody loved him. He was fond of work, always 
on time, and neat and orderly in his habits. He tried 
so hard to do right that his sister was able to say of 
him that he was "true, high-minded and noble,— never 
a mean thought or act." 

Henry's home was full of books and music, and he 
early learned to love both. He would read when he 
was a very little boy. As in those days there were very 
few books written for children, he read many of those 
intended for grown people. 

The little Longfellows had "Robinson Crusoe" and 
"Arabian Nights." They read and enjoyed them as you 
do to-day, but not many boys'^and girls know as much 
of Shakespeare, Milton, Goldsmith, prydtn. Pope and 
other standard authors, as did these New England chil- 
dren of long ago. 



14 The Story of Longfellow. | 

On Sunday these books and all playthings were laid 
aside. The children went to church both morning and 
afternoon, unless they were sick. There were no Sun- 
day Schools then, but after "meeting" the mother would 
read the Bible to her children, show them pictures and 
sing with them. 

During the long winter evenings they used to gather 
around the evening lamp to study their lessons. After 
they had learned them, they were allowed to play 
games. Sometimes these became too noisy, when the 
father had reading or writing to do. Then they would 
go to the big old-fashioned kitchen, with its open 
fire-place, and play there. 

When bed-time came, they hurried to get under the 
blankets, for old-fashioned bed-rooms were often very 
cold. They were still colder in the morning, when the 
ice had to be broken in the pitchers before one could 
wash. The summer days were the best, for then the 
children could play in green fields, shady woods, on 
breezy hill-tops or on the sunny shore. Happy times, 
indeed, must these Longfellow children have had in 
their pleasant home with its beautiful surroundings. 



The Story of L,ongfe;i.i.ow. 15 



CHAPTER II. 
The SchooIvBoy. 

When Henry Longfellow was a little boy there were 
no kindergartens, but children began to go to school 
much earlier than they do now. He was only three 
years old when he went, with his five-year-old brother 
Stephen, to a school kept by Mrs. Fellows. 

Sometimes the little fellow went to school on horse- 
back, sitting in front of a man who worked for his 
father. 

His next school was a public school. He was sent 
to it when he was five years old. He did not attend 
this school very long. The boys were so rough that he 
was very unhappy among them. 

He went from this school to one kept by Mr. Wright. 
When Mr. Wright went away Mr. Carter took his place. 

Henry must' have liked Mr. Carter very much, and 
his parents must have thought him a good teacher, for 
when he took charge of the Portland Academy Henry 
went to the new school with him. 



16 The Story of IvOngfellow. 

Here is one of Henry's reports or billets: 

"Master Henry Longfellow is one of the best boyi ^ 
we have in school. He spells and reads very well. He* 
also can add and multiply in numbers. His conduct last 
quarter was very correct and amiable. 

N. H. Carter." 

He was only six and a half years old when this was 
written. When he was a little over seven he had gone 
half through the Latin Grammar, and stood ahead of 
boys older than himself. 

One of his schoolmates said of Henry Longfellow 
that he always looked you square in the face, and that 
while he was fond of bathing in tfie creek and walking 
in the woods, he liked better to lie under a tree and 
read. 

In his time the school year was divided into four 
quarters, and there was a week's vacation at the end of 
each. During these holidays Henry used sometimes to 
visit his grandfather Longfellow, who lived on a farm a 
few miles out of Portland. 

Near the farmhouse were rows of elm trees. Henry's 
father had helped to plant these when he himself was a 
boy. 



The Story op I,ongfei.i.ow. 17 

There was a blacksmith's shop across the road from 
the house, where the farm horses were shod. There 
was also a brook near by. You can easily imagine what 
good times the boys had on these visits, especially as 
there were cousins with whom they enjoyed them. 

There was haymaking in the meadows, buttermaking 
m the dairy, and spinning and weaving going on in the 
house. There was corn-husking if it was autumn, and 
"berrying" if it was summer. There were horses to be 
taken to water, cows to be brought home at nightfall, 
and calves, lambs, colts, pigs and fowls to be fed. 

Henry had another grandfather who lived farther 
away. This was his grandfather Wadsworth. He had 
been a soldier, and was once captured by the British. 
The boys were very fond of hearing him tell stories of 
the war. 

They were a little afraid of the old gentleman, how- 
ever. He dressed in what was to them a strange and 
old-fashioned way. He used to wear a red coat, yellow 
vest and "small-clothes," white ruffled shirt, white 
stockings, and silver-buckled shoes. His hair was pow- 
dered and^^braided into a queue. He was a good man. 



^ 



18 The Story of Longfellow. 

and had been so brave a soldier that he had been made! 
a general. ^ ' 

Near General Wadsworth's house was a little lake 
called Lovell's Pond. Years before there had been an 
Indian tight on its shores. Henry had often heard the 
story and was deeply interested in it. 

When he was thirteen years old he wrote a poem 
about it. As these verses were the tlrst ever published 
by Henry W. Longfellow, you will perhaps enjoy reading 
them. 

THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND. 

Cold, cold is the uorth wind and rude is the blast 

That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, 

As it moans through the tall, waving pines loan and drear. 

Sighs a requiem sad o'er the w^arrior's bier. 

The war whoop is still, and the savage's yel! 

Has sunk into silence along the wild dell; 

The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er, 

And the war clarion's voice is now heard no more. 

The warriors that fought for their country — and bled. 
Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; 
No stone tells the place where their ashes repose. 
Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. 



The Story of Longfellow. 19 

They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, 
And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; 
They are dead; but they live in each patriot's breast. 
And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. 

Henry wanted very much to have his poem printed, 
so he sent it to The Portland Gazette. He told the se- 
cret to his sister, and you may imagine how eagerly 
they waited for the day on v.vhich the paper was to come. 

Henry's father was the first to open The Ga{ette when 
it arrived. He slowly unfolded it and spread it before 
the tire to dry. The two children found it hard to wait 
in patience until he had finished reading it, so anxious 
were they to see whether the verses had been printed 
or not. 

At last their time came, and, to their joy, they found 
the poem in "The Poets' Corner" of the paper. They 
read it ag:ain and again, thinking it better each time. 
But a great disappointment was in store for the young- 
poet. 

That evening Mr. Longfellow called on his friend 
Judge Mellon. He took his son with him as Henry and 
Frederic Mellon, the Judge's son, were friends. 



20 The Story of Longfellow. 

The two ^"entlemen began to talk of poems and 
poetry. In the course of the conversation Judge Mel- 
lon said to Mr. Longfellow, "Did you see the piece in 
to-day's paper? Very stiff, remarkably stiff; moreover 
it is all borrowed, every word of it." 

Poor Henry! We can only imagine what a mortifica- 
tion this was to him, but we can be sure he bore it 
bravely. Far from becoming discouraged he tried and 
tried again, until, as we know, be became one of our 
greatest American poets. 



The Story of Longfellow. 



21 



CHAPTER III. 
The Student. 
When Henry Longfellow was fourteen, the age when 
boys of to-day are entering High School, he was ready 
for college. 




BOWDOIN COLLEGE IN 1822. 



Although his father and his grandfather had been 
graduated from Harvard College, it was decided that 
Henry and Stephen should go to Bowdoin. Bowdoin 



22 The Story op Longfellow. 

College is in Brunswick, Maine. Mr. Longfellow was 
a trustee of this institution. 

For the first year the boys studied at home. Then they 
went to live in Brunswick, where they took a room to- 
gether, which could not have been very comfortable, 
for they wrote home about the trouble they had in keep- 
ing it warm during the long cold New England winter. 
People seldom put carpets on their bedrooms in those 
days, and all rooms were very plainly furnished. 

The college life of the two young students was a 
very simple one. There were recitations and long hours 
of study. They read many books and wrote many let- 
ters. For exercise they took long walks. 

During one long period of bad weather Henry f^t 
that he did not have enough exercise. He marked diff" 
an image of himself on the door, put on his boxing 
gloves, and sparred away at the figure he had drawn 
until he was thoroughly warmed up. 

He wrote many letters to his father and mother dur- 
ing his college years. They are filled with accounts of 
the books he was reading at the time, and'of the studies 
he was pursuing. 



The Story of IvOngfellow. 23 

One of his college friends was Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
who, in after years, wrote The IVonder Book, Tangle- 
wood Tales, and many other books, which you will read 
when you are older. Hawthorne, like Longfellow, was 
fond of walking in the woods, and did not care any 
more for hunting than did his friend. 

hi one of the College Exhibitions Longfellow and 
a classmate named Bradbury, took part. It was 
"A Dialogue between a North American Indian and a 
European." On this occasion Longfellow took the part 
of the Indian chief. King Philip, and Bradbury that of 
Captain Miles Standish. 

Years afterwards Longfellow wrote his poem called 
"The Courtship of Miles Standish," which is so well 
known. The John Alden of the story was one of his 
mother's ancestors. 

Longfellow's college vacations were, of course, spent 
at home. The journeys between Brunswick and Port- 
land were made in the old-fashioned stage coach. He 
speaks in a letter of the "mud, darkness and misery" 
of one of them. 

During one of his vacations he made his first trip to 



^ 



24 The Story of Longfellow. 

Boston. This was a great event to him, for Boston was 
then, as it is now, the greatest of the New England 
cities. 

He traveled by stage, and only got as far as Ports- 
mouth the first day. The coach was on runners. In the 
night there was such a heavy rain that, by morning, hardly 
any snow was left on the ground. It was, indeed, in 
"mud and misery" that they dragged along, as best they 
could, from Portsmouth to Newburyport. There the 
runners were changed for wheels, and they reached 
Boston that night. 

Longfellow enjoyed his visit very much, and made 
good use of his time. You may be sure that he saw 
Charlestown, Cambridge, the Navy Yard, Bunker Hill 
and the State House. He visited museums and art 
galleries, and went to one fine ball. Everything de- 
lighted him, and after eight days of pleasure and sight- 
seeing he returned to college and his studies much 
refreshed. 

In addition to his regular work, the young student 
found time to write for several papers and magazines. 
Little by little, he began to be known as a rising young 



The; Story of Longfullow. 2.5 

writer, and was frequently asked to contribute to peri- 
odicals. 

He did a great deal of hard reading, and altogether 
worked to such good purpose that, when Commence- 
ment Day came, he found himself ranked fourth in a 
class of thirty-eight. On account of his high standing, 
he was chosen to give the Third English Oration. 

During these college years Henry Longfellow was a 
conscientious student. His conduct was always that 
of a gentleman. He was high-minded, upright and 
courteous. He had a bright, happy disposition, which 
made everybody with whom he came in contact love him. 
During his last year he began to think very seriously 
of what he should do when his college days were over. 
He came to the conclusion. that he did not want to be a 
doctor, a lawyer, or a minister. He wanted to go to 
Harvard College for a year's study of literature and 
languages. 

His father was willing to let him do this, though he 
wished him to become a lawyer. While they were 
discussing the matter, and before it was fully decided, 
good news came to the young graduate. 



26 The Story of Longfellow. 

A professor of Modern Languages was needed in 
Bowdoin College, and Henry Longfellow was chosen to 
fill the place. He was first to go to Europe, in order 
to study the languages there. 

This pleased him very much, and soon after he left 
college he began to prepare for his long journey. 



The Story of LoNGFKLtow. 27 



CHAPTER IV. 
The Travei^er. 

It was not thought best that young Longfellow 
should sail for Europe before the spring, when the ocean 
would be less dangerous. During the winter of waiting 
he studied law at home, read many books, and wrote 
for papers and magazines. 

In April he bade good-bye to friends and home, and 
left for New York, where he was to take ship sometime 
in May. He traveled by stage coach, stopping for short 
visits with friends in Boston and North Hampton. 

He found after reaching New York that he had some 
days to wait before the ship could be ready to sail. He 
took advantage of this opportunity to visit Philadelphia. 

On the fifteenth of May the ship sailed for Havre, 
France, with Henry Longfellow as one of its passengers. 

Today one crosses the ocean in from five to seven 
days, but the packet ship Cadmus, did not reach port 
until June fifteenth. 

The voyage was uneventful, for there was no rough 



28 The Story of Longfellow. ' ; 

weather. Indeed, the sea was so calm that our traveler 
wrote home that the journey might have been made in 
a yawl boat. 

He went at once to Paris and settled down for study. 
He set himself immediately to work, reading, studying, 
and conversing in the French language. He attended 
French lectures where he at tlrst understood only about 
one word in fifty. As soon as hot weather came, and 
the lectures closed for the summer, he went to a coun- 
try place near Paris. 

He wrote to his father that he had had no idea that 
it was so difficult to really know a foreign language. 
He said that had he known beforehand what a hard 
task he was undertaking, he would have shrunk from it. 

Having undertaken it, however, he did not shrink, 
but worked with a patient perseverance that made him 
one of the finest scholars in America. 

His young friends at home imagined that he was 
having a fine time in Paris, where there is so much to 
see and enjoy. 

While he did see and enjoy much, he made use of 
every opportunity for study which offered itself. He 



The Stopv of Longfellow. 29 

never shirked the work he had chosen. He never for 
a moment forgot the purpose of his journey. 

During the summer he made an excursion on foot 
through a part of France, but cool weather found him 
once more at work in Paris, hi addition to his work 
-in French he took lessons in Italian. It was in this 
way that he passed eight busy months. From France 
.he went to Spain, traveling slowly toward Madrid, 
•where he was to go on with his studies. 

He greatly enjoyed all that he saw of the beautiful 
land romantic Spanish country. He often spoke in after 
years of these travels. He said that no part of the 
fworld ever gave him more delight that did this first 
glimpse of sunny Spain. 

He has translated many Spanish poems for us, and 
rin his writings we find many beautiful thoughts which 
this journey brought to him. 

While in Madrid, Longfellow met Washington 
Irving, whose books he had known and loved ever since 
he was a boy. The old writer and the younger one be- 
icame very good friends. 

From February to September the Spanish language 



ih 



30 The Story of Longfellow. 

engaged the young scholar. Then came another de- 
lightful journey through southern Spain, as he made 
his way toward Italy. 

While in Italy, he learned to know and love the lit- 
erature of Florence, Naples and Rome. He saw some-' 
thing of the country, but was most of the time at work 
in one of the cities. 

A severe illness in Rome made it necessary for hini 
to go to the hills and get well. i 

We are quite safe in thinking that even there and 
then he was studying the language, observing the cus- 
toms, and thinking such thoughts of the place and the 
people as would later enrich the volume of Longfellow s 
Poems, which are now found in every library. 

From Italy he moved on to Germany for more work 
and study. He made his home at Gottingen, where he 
not only took lessons in German, but kept up his 
French, Spanish and Italian. 

He had a month's travel in England, and was ex- 
pecting to go back to Germany, when he was called 
home. He received a letter containing the news of a 
sister's illness. On receipt of this he started for Amer- 



The Story of IvOngfehow. 31 

ica at once, but in Paris received the news of her 
death. 

He sailed as quickly as he could, and reached home in 
August. He had been away a little more than three years. 

In a book of Mr. Longfellow's called Oiifre-Me/% you 
will read, when you are older, a delightful account of 
this first European journey of his. 

The second voyage was made several years later in 
the company of his young wife and two friends. This 
voyage was also made on a packet ship. 

The party spent three weeks in London, and went 
from there to Stockholm, by way of Hamburg and 
Copenhagen. 

While visiting the Swedish town of Lydkoping, 
Professor Longfellow was in the public square at mid- 
night, one night in June. It was so light that he could 
see to read. 

He heard the watchman cry, as the clock struck 
twelve — 

"Ho! watchman, ho! 
Twelve the clock hath stricken; 
God keep our town from fire and brand 
And enemy's hand!" 



32 The Story of Longfei^low. 

This was done four times, the watchman facing in 
turn North, South, East and West. 

On returning- to Stockholm, Mr. Longfellow settled 
down to the study of Swedish. He also took lessons in 
Finnish, and later on, in Copenhagen, learned something 
of the Danish language. 

From Copenhagen he went to Amsterdam to add the 

the Dutch language to those he already knew. While 
there, his wife became very ill, and a little while after, 
died in Rotterdam. 

We next hear of Mr. Longfellow in Heidelberg, where 
he was busy with German studies for some time, striv- 
ing to conquer his great sorrow by hard work. Later, 
he traveled with friends through Switzerland, and re- 
turned to America by way of Paris. 

Professor Longfellow's third journey to Europe was 
made in search of health some years afterward. He 
went to a small German town to try the water-cure, 
which was then very popular. The baths, the rest and 
the change did him much good. 

He greatly enjoyed the friends he met and made in 
Germany, and spent some time traveling about with them. 



The Story of IvOngfei^low. 33 

He was only absent from home six months. On his 
homeward voyage he wrote the Poems on Slavery, which 
now form part of his works. 

The fourth and last journey across the ocean was 
made many years later. The traveling party consisted 
of the poet, his three daughters, a son, daughter-in- 
law, two sisters, a brother and a brother-in-law. They 
went first to the English lakes, where they greatly en- 
joyed the beautiful scenery. 

By this time Mr. Longfellow's fame was world-wide. 
He was known and loved in England almost as well as 
at home. 

Everybody wanted to see and know the man who 
had written Hiawatha and Evangeline. He was feasted 
and entertained again and again while in London. 

He was received by Mr. Gladstone, and the Queen 
sent for him to visit her at Windsor Castle. 

Charles Dickens was then one of his best friends, 
and there was no one of any note or fame who did not 
delight to honor the American poet. 

Among others, he visited the poet Tennyson, who 
was living in the Isle of Wight. 



34 The Story of Longfei^low. 

The party traveled through Switzerland and Italy 
to Paris. They returned to Italy to pass the winter in 
Rome. 

Here again Mr. Longfellow found himself known 
and loved. His company was sought by many people 
of distinction, both American and foreign. 

The return journey was made by way of Paris and 
London. The party reached home safely after having 
been away about eighteen months. 



The Story of Longfullow. 35 



CHAPTER V. 
Thf Professor. 

Mr. Longfellow was only twenty-two years old 
when he became Professor of Modern Languages in 
Bowdoin College. 

He entered upon his work with the full intention of 
doing his best. He meant not only to do well all that 
was required of him, but more besides. He intended 
to do anything and everything he could which might 
make him, or his pupils, more efficient. 

He was not in the least afraid of hard work. He 
was no more than fairly started in his teaching when he 
undertook extra labor. This was the writing of a 
French Grammar for the use of his classes. 

He was greatly loved and admired by the young 
men who were his pupils. They liked the idea of hav- 
ing a man so near their own ages as a teacher. 

The fact that he had just returned from Europe, 
after three years of travel and study, gave him great 
interest in their eyes. 



36 The Story of Longfellow. 

In spite of his youth he had a fine dignity of speech 
and manner. He commanded the respect and obedience 
of his students as well as their affection. 

He was ever kindly, sympathetic and helpful to 
them. The day never came when they were anything 
but proud of having had Professor Longfellow for a 
teacher. 

When a librarian was needed for the College Library, 
and Professor Longfellow was chosen to till the posi- 
tion, it is needless to say that he filled it well. He did 
this work as thoroughly as he did everything else which 
came to his hand. 

In addition to this duty, his teaching and his writing, 
the ambitious young professor undertook a new work; 
it was the preparation of written lectures, connected 
with the subjects he taught. He was not obliged to do 
this, but his love for his work and his pupils made it a 
pleasure to him. 

From time to time he wrote for different papers and 
magazines. He was preparing for the day when the 
name of Henry W. Longfellow should be known where- 
ever papers and magazines were read. Of course he 



The Story of Longfellow. 37 

did not know this, but he worked as faithfully as if he 
had been able to know the future. 

The next four years were busy and happy ones for 
Professor Longfellow. His name began to be known, 
not only in papers and magazines, but among the 
colleges as well. 

A proposition came to him from Harvard College. 
A professor of Modern Languages was needed there. 
It was thought that Professor Longfellow was the man 
for the place. Not only was an increase of salary 
offered him, but leave of absence for a second journey 
abroad. 

The proposition was accepted, and after an absence 
of eighteen months, during which he added much to his 
already large store of knowledge, he began his 
new work. He held his position as Professor of 
Modern Languages in Harvard College for eighteen 
years. 

Here, as at Bowdoin, he became a great favorite. 
He was the loved and honored teacher of hundreds of 
young men, who, all their lives, were better and stronger 
for his influence. 



38 The Story of Longfellow. 

One of them once said "Professor Longfellow always 
treats us like gentlemen." 

He could not do otherwise, for he was a gentleman 
himself, in the highest and truest sense of the word. 

He was equally beloved by his fellow teachers and 
townsmen. He was sought by the most cultivated and 
charming people of both Boston and Cambridge. 

It was during this period that he numbered among 
his friends such men as Sumner, Prescott, Emerson, 
Whittier, Lowell, Holmes and Bryant. 

Busy as he was with this new and stirring life, his 
thoughts often went back, in the form of letters, to his 
old home in Portland. When you are old enough to 
read and enjoy these letters you will know Professor 
Longfellow better, and honor him more than ever. 

One of his college duties was the oversight of all 
the other teachers of foreign languages. This work, 
with his own teaching, lecturing and writing made his 
life a most active one. 

On his arrival in Cambridge, Professor Longfellow 
had taken rooms in the old mansion known as Craigie 
House. This house was famous even then, having been 



The Story of Longfellow. 



.30 



Washington's headquarters during the Revolution. It 
is still more famous now as the Longfellow House, for 
it was the home of the Longfellow family for many 
years. At the time of this writing (1899) it is occupied 
by the poets daughter, Miss Alice Longfellow. 




I.ONGFEI,LO\V'S HOME (CRAIGIE HOUSE). 

Until his second marriage, in 1843, Professor 
Longfellow occupied two upper rooms in Craigie 
House. Afterwards the house was bought for his per- 
manent home. 

It is a beautiful old homestead. It sets back from 



40 



The Story op Longfellow. 






the road in large grounds, is shaded by lofty trees, and 
is separated from the street by a lilac hedge. j 

There are large piazzas on the east and west. On 
every side are views of green lawns, stately elm trees 
and shady village streets. 



< 



The Storv of Longfei.i.o\v. 41 



CHAPTER VI. 

The Poet. 

From his early youth Mr. Longfellow had been writ- 
ing poems and other compositions for various papers 
and magazines. 

The poems were collected and published in volumes 
later. Now most of the editions of Longfellow's Poems 
contain all his miscellaneous poetry, although there are 
many books in which are found single poems or a sel- 
ected few. 

One of the most familiar poems is The Psalm of Life. 
Mr. Longfellow wrote this on the back of an envelope, 
one bright sunny morning. 

It came from the depths of his heart, and perhaps 
that is why it touched the depths of so many other 
hearts. It was no sooner published than it made a great 
stir in the literary world. It was copied, learned, sung 
and talked about everywhere. People of all ages, but 
young men especially, seemed to be impressed by it, and 
many of them wrote to Mr. Longfellow, telling him so. 



42 The Story of Longfellow. 

The Reaper and the Flowers was written with tears in 
the eyes of its author. It has brought the same sort of 
tears to the eyes of many readers. 




LONGFELLOW'S STUDY. 
Showing chair presented to him by children of Cambridge. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus was written shortly after 
a terrible storm, which wrecked more than one ship 
on the reef of Norman's Woe. 

Excelsior was suggested to him by the emblematic 
picture which formed part of the heading of a New 
York paper. 



The Story op Longfellow. 43 

The yillage Blacksmith worked in Cambridge, "un- 
der tlie spreading chestnut tree." 

In the later years of Mr. Longfellow's life, a chair 
was made from the wood of this tree, and presented to 
him by the school children of Cambridge. Mr. Long- 
fellow was so touched by this that it was for them the 
poem ''From My Anu-chaif' was written. 

The Poems on Slavery were composed on the voyage 
home after the poet's third journey to Europe. They 
created a great deal of comment. He was both severely 
criticized and highly commended for writing them. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs stood in a house in 
Pittstleld, Massachusetts, where lived relatives of Mrs. 
Longfellow. The poet and his second wife visited this 
house on their wedding journey, and often afterwards. 

The story of the poem called " The Arsemil at Spring- 
field-' is a pleasant one. 

It was during their wedding journey that Mr. and 
Mrs. Longfellow visited the arsenal. Charles Sumner 
was with them. He told his friends the money spent 
for munitions of war would be much better expended 
on books. 



I 



44 The Story of Longfellow. , 

Mrs. Longfellow said that the shining gun barrels, 
ranged along the wall, reminded her of a great organ on 
which Death would one day make sad music. 

It was this remark, and Mrs. Longfellow's urgingi 
her husband to write a peace poem rather than a warj 
song, which suggested the verses. | 

''The Arrow and the Song' flashed into the poet'sj 
mind one Sunday morning, as he stood by the fire wait-j 
ing for church time. He wrote it down immediately! 
just as it came to him. 

The story of how the poem Evangeline came to be, 
will interest all who have read it, or will read it. 

Mr. Longfellow's friend, Nathaniel Hawthorne, dined 
with him one day. He brought with him a Mr. Con- 
oily. 

This gentleman had been telling Hawthorne a stor} 
which had been told to him. It was about two Acadian 
lovers who, having been separated, sought vainly fo/ 
each other for many years. 

Mr. Conolly wanted Hawthorne to weave this stof} 
into one of his charming tales, but it did not strike th^ 
author's fancy. i 



The Story of lyONGFEi^LOw. 45 

! Mr. Longfellow said that, if Hawthorne did not want 
t for a story, he would like it for a poem. Hawthorne 
A^as more than willing that he should have it, and thus 
;,t was that one of the most widely read of Longfellow's 
Doems had its beginning. 

While studying books of Indian legends and folk- 
lore in preparation for Hiawatha, Mr. Longfellow had 
;:he opportunity of seeing a large panorama, or moving 
picture, of the Mississippi River, which was exhibited 
n Boston. He enjoyed this very much, commenting 
on his good fortune in having the river brought to him 
^A^hen he could not go to the river. 

The Children s Hour is a poem which allows us for 
the moment to go into the poet's home life. 

We sit with him in the study; we hear the patter of 
liittle feet in the room above; we feel for the rest of our 
ives a love for and interest in "Grave Alice and laugh- 
ing Allegra, and Edith with golden hair." 

The poem beginning "Come to me, O ye children" 
^as written in this same study to the music of these 
;same pattering little feet in the chamber above. 

I hope as you grow older you will read more and 



46 The Story of Longfellow. 

more of Longfellow's beautiful poetry. The words are 
full of music and of noble thoughts; the stories told in 
verse are as interesting as they are instructive; in read- 
ing what Longfellow has written we go with him into 
other times, other places and other lives; we also go 
-deep down into one of the truest hearts that ever beat* 



The Story of LoNGFEr^Low. 47 



CHAPTER VII. 

The Father. 

Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow had six children. Charles 

and Ernest were the eldest two. Then came a daughter, 

Fanny, who died while she was a baby. It was after 

her death that the other three girls were born. 

It is the eldest of these, Miss Alice, who is now liv- 
ing in Craigie House and who so often kindly welcomes 
visitors to this American shrine. 

No children were ever blessed with a more loving 
mother and father than these, none ever had a more 
beautiful home, none ever received a more tender care. 
When they were ill Mr. Longfellow's distress was 
greater than their own; he found it impossible to write; 
he was not himself until they were well again. 

He always took part in the birthday parties and holi- 
jday celebrations, of which there were many. He often 
I recorded them in his journal. Some were in the sum- 
mer, among the apple trees and haycocks. Others 
' were held in winter in the warm, tire-lighted rooms. 



48 The Story of Longfellow. ' 

At one of these Ernest took the part of the Old 
Year, wearing a great white beard and boots. His sis- 
ter Ah'ce, with a wreath on her head, was the Httle New 
Year. 

At one of Charles' birthday parties the seat in the 
old apple tree, where Mr. Longfellow sat when he wrote 
The Wreck of the Hesperus, was turned into a fort. 

It is pleasant to think of the great poet, whose name 
is so revered, building snowhouses, and buying hoops, 
railroad cars, velocipedes and dolls for the children he 
so tenderly loved. One envies them their walks through 
the shady streets of Cambridge, with so wise and good 
a companion. 

We can imagine the many pleasant rambles among 
the ponds, brooks and hills of Pittsfield, and along the 
beach at Nahant, for the family often visited among 
the lovely Berkshire Hills, and spent many summers on 
the sea-shore. 

During the winter they of course went often into 
Boston. The Longfellow children must have walked 
down historic Beacon Street many times. They must 
often have passed through Boston Common, and by the 



The Story of LongfeIvI^ow. 49 

quaint old churches and burying grounds, which are in 
the heart of the city. Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, The 
State House and the Old South Church were familiar 
sights to them. 

They went to museums and libraries, and even to 
the circus, in the company of the father who was so 
good a friend. With him, the boys saw the launchings 
of the ships Merrimac, Hartford and Minnehaha. 

They went with him to Boston to see the celebration 
of the laying of the Atlantic cable, in 18^8. They must 
have greatly enjoyed the ringing of bells, the bands of 
music, the flying flags and the marching soldiers. 

The first school these bovs attended was near the 
Washington Elm, in Cambridge. It was under this 
famous tree, which is still standing, that Washington 
took command of the American Army. 

Mr. Longfellow went to school with the boys on 
their momentous "first day." 

He very often read aloud to them, at home, and 
taught them to love good books. If you ever hear the 
Indian legend of the Red Swan, or the stories from a 
book called "The Parents' Assistant," you can think of 



50 The Story of Longfellow. 

the Longfellow children as having these very tales read 
to them by their father. ; 

His love and sympathy were always with them, in 
his journal, which is so full of beautiful and noble 
thoughts, one finds the children's doings noted on Val- 
entine's Day, April Fool's Day, and many other days 
besides. 

After Mrs. Longfellow's death, Mr. Longfellow had 
to be father and mother both, to his children. He never 
allowed his own bitter grief to shadow their young lives. 

He took his boys with him on a trip to Niagara! 
Falls, which, of course, they enjoyed very much. J 

"Edith, with golden hair," at one time opened a cor- 
respondence with her father. The post-oftlce was ] 
under her pillow, and it was there she found the answers 
to her letters in the morning. 

During the Civil War, the eldest son Charles, joined 
the army. Though not yet twenty years old, he was 
made a lieutenant of Cavalry. 

Later his father received a telegram saying that he 
had been severely wounded at the last battle on the 
Rapidan. 



The Story of LongfeIvLOw. 51 

In company with his son Ernest, Mr. Long-fellow left 
for Washington, expecting to find his son in a hospital 
there, but in this he was disappointed. He was obliged 
to wait for several days in great anxiety before the 
wounded men were sent up from the South. 

Charles had been shot through both shoulders. The 
wound was a very serious one. The surgeons said he 
would not be fit for service for at least six months. His 
father and brother brought him home, where he was 
most tenderly and carefully nursed back to health. 

In writing to a friend, his father said of him: "How 
brave these boys are! Not a single murmur of com- 
plaint though he has a wound through him a foot long. 
He pretends that it does not hurt him." 

Mr. Longfellow's love for his own children gave him 
a keen interest in those of other people. 

He was much amused, one day in Portland, in watch- 
ing a crowd of boys on the shore. They were capturing 
a wounded crane, and one small poet ran past shouting 

"It was a crane 
Flew down the lane." 

It reminded him of one of his own boyhood days 



52 The Story of Longfellow. 

when, mounted on a stick, in company with two other 
boys, he dashed along with the cry 

"We three 
Champions be!'' 

hi one of the journals Mr. Longfellow makes a ten- 
der mention of a little sick boy next door, whose funeral 
he attended later. 

A little neighbor was one day visiting Mr. Longfellow 
in his library. He looked at the rows and rows of books, 
and then asked the poet if he hid Jack the Giant Killer. 

Mr. Longfellow said that he had not, and the next 
day the little fellow brought him some of his own 
money with which to buy a copy. 

All over the United States the children had been 
learning to know and love the Cambridge poet. 

In 1880 his birthday was celebrated in the public 
schools of Cincinnati. Fifteen thousand children took 
part in the commemoration. , 

This was the first of many similar celebrations, 
especially in the West. To-day Longfellow's birthday, 
the twenty-seventh of February, is known and honored 
by most of the children in the country. 



The Story of IvOngfellow. 53 



CHAPTER VIII. 
The Man. 

If "a man is known by the company he keeps," 
Henry W. Longfellow must stand for a very prince 
among men. He drew to himself throughout his whole 
life, the noblest and best from two continents. No man 
every had more or warmer friends than he; no man 
ever held them more firmly, or valued then more highly. 

The list of their names would be a very long one, 
were it written. On it would appear Whittier, Holmes, 
Lowell, Prescott, Irving, Bryant and Hawthorne. 

He knew Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and also Daniel Webster and 
Henry Clay. Thackeray was a welcome guest at 
Craigie House. Tennyson was one of his correspondents. 
Charles Dickens was proud to be called his friend. 

In England, during his last visit, Mr. Longfellow 
breakfasted with Mr. Gladstone, was entertained by the 
Queen at Windsor Castle, and called, by request, on the 
Prince of Wales. 



54 The Story of I^ongfellow. 

During the patriot Kossuth's visit to this country in 
18^2, Longfellow was one of those invited to dine with 
the distinguished stranger. He took a prominent part 
in the entertainment provided for the Prince of Wales 
on his visit to Boston. 

One of Mr. Longfellow's nearest and dearest friends 
was Charles Sumner, whose honorable career he fol- 
lowed with a loving and sympathetic interest. 

Few men have exhibited so well-rounded a char- 
acter as our great poet. He was much more than a 
poet. He was a man, in the highest sense of the word. 

His social nature was strongly developed. He loved 
society, and was always a welcome figure in the social 
gatherings of Cambridge and Boston. 

He was most hospitable in his home. The doors of 
Craigie House stood wide open, not only to friends, 
but to all who chose to call. No matter how occupied 
he was, Mr. Longfellow received often obtrusive and 
troublesome strangers with a courteous welcome. 

From childhood he was a most loving and dutiful 
son, writing constantly to his parents in Portland, and 
often visiting them there. 



* 



The Story of Longfellow. 55 

He neglected none of his duties, even such as were 
irksome to him. He held his place in the community 
as a man and a citizen should. 

He was especially kind to poor and distressed for- 
eigners, many of whom found their way to his door. 

He often tired himself out writing autographs for 
the many people who asked for them. He sometimes 
was asked for large quantities of them to be sold at 
church fairs. 

In his later life his correspondence became a great 
burden to him. People from all over the world wrote 
to him on all sorts of subjects, and for all sorts of reasons. 

He often received as many as sixty letters a day. 
Up to the last, he was invariably kind and courte- 
ous to these unknown writers and admirers. As long 
as he was able, he answered the letters himself, but 
toward the end of his life was obliged to have it done 
for him. 

He was always fond of air and exercise. He took 
many long walks, and enjoyed both skating and bathing. 

His poems tell us how fond he was of Nature, of 
music, of books and of study. 



55 The Story of Longfellow. 

At one time, he had trouble with his eyes. They 
caused him much discomfort and inconvenience. With 
his wife's help, he kept on with his writing, his study 
and his work, bravely overcoming the difficulties as 

best he could. 

One of the pleasantest stories told of Mr. Longfellow 
is of a disagreeable person who had caused him consid- 
erable annoyance, but to whom he was unfailingly 
kind. 

Being told by one of his friends that he ought no 
longer submit to such impositions, he replied, "But, 
Charles, who will be kind to him if I am not?" 

There was great sorrow in both America and 
Europe when the death of Henry W. Longfellow was 
made known. 

He died on March twenty-fourth, having lived sev- 
enty-tlve beautiful and blameless years. He was buried 
in Mt: Auburn, by the side of his wife and little daughter. 
Those who loved him in England have placed his 
marble image in the "Poets' Corner" of Westminster^ 
Abbey. Statues have been erected to his honor in bothj 
Portland and Cambridge. 



The Story of Longfei^low. 57 

His best monument, however, is in the hearts of the 
people — men, women and children, who know and love 
him through the poems which make him one of the 
first among our American Poets. 



SELECTIONS. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THF HEART OP THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE 
PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

"Life is but an empty dream!" 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muiHed drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



58 



The Story of Longfellow. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of lyife, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act,— act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THK REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen. 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 

And the flowers that grow between. 

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he 
"Have nought but the bearded grain? 

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 



1 



The Story of I^ongfellow. 59 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves; 
It was for the L,ord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

"M3' Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled; 
"Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

"They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted b}^ my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 

The flowers she most did love; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth. 

And took the flowers away. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax. 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 



60 



The Story of Longfellow. 

The skipper he stood beside the hehii, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
"I pray thee, put into yonder port. 

For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!" 
The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. j 



I 



Colder and colder blew the wind, i 

A gale from the North-east; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like .yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 

The vessel in its strength; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted .steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither! come hither! my little dai.^hter, 

And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale. 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar. 

And bound her to the mast. 



The Story op IvOngfeli^ow. 61 

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be?" 
'"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be?' ' 
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea!" 

"O father! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

leashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies. 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee, 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear. 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 



62 



The Story of IvONGFEi^low. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 
She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Lrooked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 

With the masts went by the board; , 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, ^ 

Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 

I i 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, ' 

A fisherman stood aghast, i 

To see the form of a maiden fair. 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed. 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such wa ; the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midniglit and the snow! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe! 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH, 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands, 



The Story op Longfellow. 63 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black and long, 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face. 

For he owes not anj' man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 

You can hear his bellows blow; 
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 

With measured beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 

When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door; 
They lov^e to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies; 



64 



The Story of Longfellow. 

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 
ToiUng,— rejoicing,— sorrowing, 

Onward through Ufe he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begin. 

Each evening sees its close; J 

Something attempted, something done, ] 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life ^ 

Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought! ' 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 

Excelsior! 
In happ5^ homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 

Excelsior! 



The Story of Longfei^low. 65 

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; 
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior! 

"O staj^," the maiden said, "and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior! 

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch.' 
Beware the awful avalanche!" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated praj^er, 
A voice, cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half -buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior! 



56 The Storv of Longfellow. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 

The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 

In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer. 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 
And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din. 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin. 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; 

The wail of famine in beleagured towns. J 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



Thb Story op IvOngfei^low. 67 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 

With such accursed instruments as these. 
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 

And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts. 

Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts. 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred! 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! 

Down the dark future, through long generations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
"Peace!" 

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals 

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals. 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



THE CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its. antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw. 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever!' ' 



The Story of Longfellow. 

Halfway up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs alas! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever! 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night. 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

• In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " i 



( 

\ 



The Story of Longfellow. 69 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
O precious hours! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
' ' Forever — never I 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
"Forever — never! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
"Ah! when shall they all meet again?" 
As in the days long- since gone b\', 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 
' ' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever!" 

Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care. 
And death, and time shall disappear,— 
Forever there, but never here! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
"Forever — never! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 



The Story of Longfellow. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 
How beautiful is the rain! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout! 

Across the window pane 

It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again. 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 



The Story of Longfellow. 71 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain! 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 



72 TnE Story of Longfellow. 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor; 

And to-night I long for rest. 
Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start; 
Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 
Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 
Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 
And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 

And as silently, steal away. 



CURFEW. 
I. 
Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 
Is begining to toll. 



The Story op lyONGFELLOw. 73 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light; 
Toil comes with the morning 

And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 

And quenched is the fire; 
Sound fades into silence, — 

All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 

No sound in the hall! 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign overall! 

II. 

The book is completed, 

And closed, like the day; 
And the hand that has written it 

Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies. 

Forgotten they lie; 
lyike coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told. 
The windows are darkened. 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall; 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign over all. 



74 The Story of Longfeli^ow. 



THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful 
are thy branches! 
Green not alone in summer time, 
But in the winter's frost and rime! 
O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful 
are thy branches! 

O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is 
thy bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity, 
And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how faithless is 
thy bosom! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
thine example! 
So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
thine example! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood. 



The Story of Longfei.i.ow. 75 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OP M'JLLER. 

"The rivers rush into the sea, 

By castle and town they go; 
The winds behind them merrily 

Their noisy trumpets blow. 

"The clouds are passing far and high, 

We little birds in them play; 
And everything, that can sing and fly. 

Goes with us, and far away. 

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence; 

With thy fluttering golden band?' ' — 
"I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea 

I haste from the narrow land. 

"Full and swollen is every sail; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

"I need not and seek not company, 

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; 
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 



76 



The Story of Longfellow. 

"High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

"Thus do I sing my weary song. 

Wherever the four winds blow; 
And this same song, my whole life long, 

Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



Thb Story of IvOngfe;i,i,ow. 77 



AN APRII, DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sv/eet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many- folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softl3'-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And, when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far. 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 



78 The Story of Longfellow. 

Inverted in the tide, 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April! — many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



